Final Testament

Final Testament Laurence @1987,2005 All Rights Reserved Scribal errors occur in a work of such scope and ambition. Kindly note the errors and send them to me. Rabbi Shone Many will take pen in hand to account the days of the Messiah. Luke, in the Old Testament, based his gospel on the eyewitness of those who heard the preaching of a New Covenant many years after the preacher was crucified. The Passion of our time, however, was a media event, witnessed by as many souls as stood on Sinai. I offer you, Theophilos, an interpretation of the life and teachings of the Messiah authorized by Sealah. Yet Sealah is shy of holy writ and this account is not canon. When two or three gather to discuss the new teachings as a living oral tradition, that will be our worship and prayer. When a text is fixed and an authentic received version of the truth is feigned, know that it does not have the sanction of Sealah. We are concerned with the facts of the life of the Messiah. The Final Act is complete, it is no fiction. Other gospels will be offered, by other worthy disciples. This Testament is, I pray, inspired by my devotion to the anointed one's life and teachings. Open it down the middle, for it can only alight on the wings of imagination. I offer it to you again, Theophilos, as one offers a stroll through their orchard to a dear friend. The fruits are many and the fragrance, I hope, not overpowering. This testament is good news, but not gospel. This story is Novel. A tale of friendship and love. We shall speak again soon Theophilos. © 2007 Rabbi Aryeh Alpern A New Albion Before the coming of foreign conquerors to Laguna, tribes of native Californians peopled the hills, canyons and inlets of their own little promised land. The natives would share the fate of the Ten Lost Tribes. God was One and Good, and the Indians lived in harmony with their neighbors, the land, and its creator. Digging for edible roots, gathering grapes from the vine, cracking the walnut from its shell, they toiled in joy. Wild honeybees added their sweetness, and on occasion, a deer was run down and totally consumed, as the sacrifices in Old Jerusalem. The deer spirit was thanked for the moccasins and the meat. This Eden also had its demons. Rattlers snaked through the high grass, musically announcing their presence before they struck. Grizzlies stalked the mountains. They were greatly feared. Condors, hovered deathlike, seeking their next prey. Once in a lifetime, in the sacred and supernatural Tolacha ritual, death was unmasked. The elders carefully measured the vision-inducing drug so the initiate's visit to the otherside was not permanent. When real death came, the Indian's garments were washed and the soul instructed to take its place in the heavens, with all others who had died, among the stars. Albion Lost One demon came carrying a cross. He thought the native an inferior breed, filthy, lazy and brutish, lacking inventiveness and culture. "Too lazy to hunt," he noted in his journal, "they live on grubs, abalone and tasteless roots, eating only what is forgeable, planting nothing. They leech bitter tanic acid from acorns for their meager winter meals." The Spanish Franciscan who claimed these native hills for Christ, conquered this land of promise without having to call upon his well trained troops. He considered the Indians cowardly for not resisting their new masters. The natives sensed somewhere within the Catholic's teaching, the one God they worshiped. Jesus, they found to be a gentle and noble spirit; an Indian. The priest's notion of land ownership did not overly concern the Indian. The Earth is the Creator's and all that is on the Earth. The Indians continued to grind their meal on the great rocks of the canyon. On our pilgrimage, Theophilos, I will show you the old oak holes. They appear as indentations formed by the kneeling supplicant's knees.The swallows that returned each year to the mission are, I believe, the souls of these Indians, who still yearn for their lost Eden. © 2007 Rabbi Aryeh Alpern California Nativity The Reverend set his newspaper down and gazed at the Pacific through the picture window in his study. He watched the reflection of his head shaking. A Dominican monk had stormed the pulpit of the Cathedral Notre Dame in Paris, shouting "God is dead!" The Reverend thought of his wife, and smiled. Rex Morgan, M,D. nurse pulled the plug on a terminal patient. She called it mercy killing. The Reverend called it murder. He took his wife to a movie, "Cyrano de Bergerac," to take her mind off her condition. Jose Ferrier was a magnificent Cyrano, but Christian should have spoken up for himself! Fiction and the cinema annoyed the Reverend. Only one story was worth telling. The Reverend read no novels. The trip to the movie was a rarity to please his wife. He preferred his Bible. Who could rival Genesis in narrative? Exodus in ethics? The proverbs pithiness? The lyrics of the Psalms? The high drama of the Gospels? The Reverend stood and moved closer to the window, seeking the stars. Seeing clouds, he frowned. A coastal wind moved the clouds. One moment they were veiled, the next, exposed. The Reverend inverted his frown when one bright star revealed itself in the winter sky. His wife Sandra lay in the next room under a thick down comforter. Her white hair on a white pillow accentuated a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were open, as blue as the sun setting skies so often watched, and full of light. The comforter rose in the middle of the bed, a snow colored slope. The slope did not fit the scene. Sandra knew the dangers of pregnancy at her age, and she feared for the child. The Reverend opened her door. The bright hall light entering startled Sandra. The next contraction came just as suddenly. She told her husband it was time to go to the hospital. The cold stung the reverend's hands and he returned inside for his gloves. The hospital was on a hill directly across from the house. They descended one hill and ascended another, and were at the hospital in ten minutes. A gray-haired nurse worked the maternity desk. She inadvertently shrugged as the white-haired parents-to-be approached. She immediately regretted her unprofessional show of emotion. Sandra was taken to labor and delivery, and the Reverend to the waiting room. © 2007 Rabbi Aryeh Alpern The Three Wise Men The Reverend had another window here, facing the Pacific. He watched the clouds. A slight movement of his body reversed the view, and the room behind drew into sharp focus. He watched the other two fathers-to-be. They appeared almost transparent. The older of the two, in a suit, chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes. The younger, a marine corporal, probably up from El Toro waited with military detachment. The Reverend looked for a third. Three wooden wise men gazed at the bright star. Mary lay covered with a blanket, and the baby smiled his wooden smile. Their cotton beards blew in the breeze each time the door to the waiting room opened. A hand on his shoulder startled the Reverend. The nurse had been knocking on the window with her ring, but he did not hear. He walked to the nursery window. The nurse in white gown, cap and mask was an angel, surrounded by white light, holding the Christ child. The baby smiled, cooed, and startled the angel with a laugh. The Reverend called his son Isaac, the one who will laugh, as had Father Abraham in his old age. The child was taken to his mother and the Reverend returned to the window. Snow was falling. He watched the soft crystals float to the ground. The Reverend smiled. He thought of the snow falling in Bethlehem on a similar solstice night, long ago. © 2007 Rabbi Aryeh Alpern Bar Mitzvah The canyon road meanders through the hills and spills into the Pacific. I will never forget the wonderment I felt the first time I saw the ocean at the end of the road. Not since leaving the Berkshires had I felt such peace. A stubborn twelve year old not ready to leave my transcendental forest, I had wanted to stay in Massachusetts. I was a tree cut straight off at the ground. Now I would sink roots on the highest cliff, and with each sunset count the day. That afternoon I had refused to go to Bar Mitzvah lessons. I did not believe in God. I felt cursed. I did not want to be a Jew. By the time we reached the ocean my mother convinced me to go through with the ordeal. I could not say no to a request made out of love. Yet I dreaded the day when I would have to utter incantations over a Torah I did not believe to be true. Hebrew school was punishment for unknown sins, perhaps committed in a previous life. Crimes so severe, if the punishment was any indication, as to be unimaginable. We parked on a hill to the right of the canyon. The day had cleared, and we could see all the way to Dana Point. From the gazebo on the cliff I saw glorious Pacific blues, smooth-edged gems in white, windblown settings. I was in love. The water was colder than I thought, and it took a long time to submerge.

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